


Devotion

by nerdy-flower (baconnegg)



Series: The Shimada Brothers Need Healing [12]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Baby Zenyatta content, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Bonding, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Growing Up Together, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mondatta and Zenyatta are good brothers, Mondatta backstory, Mondatta is trying his best, Mondatta lives don't worry, More tags to be added as chapters go up, Multi, Mutual Pining, Pining, Shambali Shenanigans, Shambali bonding, Sibling Bonding, Zenyatta is a little shit, not so much unreliable as oblivious narrator, post-assassination attempt Mondatta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-15 07:57:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18494695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baconnegg/pseuds/nerdy-flower
Summary: Mondatta comes into his own and learns what it is he wants, all the while worrying about his little brother.(Can be read as a stand-alone-My fellow passengers on the HMS Reindatta: I see you and I'm here for you)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> cw for minor character death and grieving

Even as the passing years render his early memories to fragments, Mondatta can still recall the spark of a great unknowable Something, just beyond the material veil. He could feel its warmth spread and dance through his mind and skin when he stood in the pink-dyed sunshine of a fine morning, when Jyoti first took his hand and said they understood, and perhaps never more so than when, out of the moaning dark of Aama's bedroom, appeared the most precious being in all the world. 

Sweet and plump and sleepy. Large, inquisitive eyes that shift from filmy blue to shimmering yellow-brown and a squashed nose. Soft-smelling, with a gummy cry that could break the hardest hearts. The baby, soon called Zenyatta, wraps his itty bitty fist around one of Mondatta's fingers and he decides then and there to love him forever. 

It isn't long before their father returns and the nightly rows start again. Mondatta is good at keeping quiet and Zenyatta is easily rocked back to sleep unless he's hungry. By daylight their father is uncommonly friendly, offering treats and trinkets and a simpering kindness in his deep voice. Aama stays in her room, crying sometimes. Mondatta is unsure what to make of it all and steals away as usual, now with Zenyatta tied to his front. 

The Durbar Square is his most favourite place, forever noisy as he dodges people, cars, and motorbikes. If he is careful and quiet, he can sneak into the temples and explore places no one is supposed to go. They are beautiful and safe, enveloping him in a furtive embrace until he is found and either offered temporary reprieve or shooed out. But even the most irritable monks and pujaris are easier to escape than the women with babies on their hips or shopkeepers with brooms in their hands who ask where their parents are or why he isn't at school. 

Tourists don't ask questions like that. They coo over Zenyatta's adorable face and press candy or coins into his hand before going on their way, in large groups or backpacking pairs. Zenyatta sleeps less with each passing week, grabbing colourful things with great interest and bawling when they're taken away. 

“No, no! Naughty!” Mondatta pries a chewy red sweet out of his brother's squalling mouth before he can choke on it, dropping the sodden sugar lump on the ground as he tries to bounce him back to contentment. Zenyatta's crown of fluffy black hair tickles his nose as he inhales. “I know, I'm sorry, shh. Shh, when you get bigger, I'll buy you lots of sweets, okay? I promise.” 

Their father leaves again, for more than a couple weeks this time. There isn't a lot of food but the neighbour ladies help sometimes and Aama strokes his hair as they fall asleep, whispering to him that he's very good. He can still recall her enormous smile when Zenyatta finally figured out how to crawl forward instead of backwards. She was already sleeping the days away by then. 

One morning, one of their neighbour's husbands who drives a truck helps Aama into it and drives away. Mondatta spends the night at their house, and the next night. He gives Zenyatta his bottle in the morning and quietly washes their clothes when he wets on them. Aama isn't there to sit up with them at night and look at the stars high above the hills, but Mondatta makes do. Tracing the constellations with his fingers and explaining them as his brother peers out from his bundle. 

While rolling in the grass of the back fields, he hears a car and assumes the best, scooping Zenyatta up from where he's happily pulling stalks from the dirt and hurrying around to the front. But it isn't Aama, it's an older woman with silver hair pulled back in a bun. Eyes like their father's and his, taller than Sadichha and the other neighbour ladies, with clothes much more stylish than theirs and silver chains at her wrists and neck. She leans on a walking stick and suddenly sighs at the sight of them, her face drawing tight despite its deep wrinkles. “Oh dear, I didn't realize there were two of them.” 

Mondatta says nothing, but keeps his arms tight around Zenyatta and feels his feet inching him backwards of their own accord. 

The older woman smiles somewhat, approaching swiftly and bending down as best she can. “Don't be shy, I'm your grandmother. You're going to live with me for a while until your mother gets better, alright?” 

Mondatta's lip wobbles but he doesn't argue. Good kids don't talk back, they take the bag that's handed to them and pack up their few picture books and don't ask questions even though the ride to their new home feels like more than forever. 

Bajai's house has lots of stairs and big shiny floors. She has someone bring a crib with sturdy bars over for Zenyatta, but Mondatta has no trouble climbing into it and curling up next to him in the dark. His new bed is too big and everything smells like fake flowers and Zenyatta is sad too, fussing the whole night long. In the morning, Mondatta asks when Aama will come to get them and doesn't hear an answer. 

Bajai isn't much for chatter, not like the women back home. She bustles them from place to place and spends a lot of time at a big desk in a room upstairs with windows that look over the Narayani River, writing numbers into different books in her tiny, neat handwriting. She instructs him to read the newspaper to her, encouraging him when he stumbles. When he gets hopelessly stuck on some parts, Bajai will lean over and sound them out or else dismiss them with a “Never mind that, dear.” 

She says nothing when the hairdresser deflates Mondatta for cutting his hair short with the kitchen shears, but also says nothing when the tailor in the crowded shop of younger children being chased with tape measures calls him a 'little gentleman' and lets them leave with trousers and shirts and ties. The tears standing in his eyes finally fall and Bajai thrusts a confused Zenyatta into his arms while she rummages through her handbag. 

“Come on then,” Bajai tuts, wiping his face with a used tissue and holding him fast against a laundromat wall despite his struggles. “Nothing to cry over.” 

Looking back much later, when monetary matters have diminished in his view, Mondatta regards it as one of the nicest things that anyone ever did for him. 

Aama is so happy to see his uniform when they visit the pale, icky-smelling green room that she sleeps in at the hospital. Bajai dutifully brings them at least twice a week and offers her fruit, but she doesn't get better. Each visit sees the circles under her eyes grow darker, her body frailer, her long brown hair thinner. Mondatta still struggles to picture her healthy, the skeletal state of her near the end eclipsing what good memories were left. 

Bajai ceases her benevolent but unyielding “Come here, do this, none of that” regiment at the hospital, letting them do as they please until her aching bones can no longer stand the plastic chair in the corner. She only sends them from the room once, when Aama veers from cooing and clasping Zenyatta's chubby hands to doubled-over sobs that echo into the hallway and draw the attention of nurses and patients alike. 

“It isn't fair,” Aama had wailed endlessly, weak and yet fiercer than any time she had yelled back home. “It isn't fair, it isn't _fair!_ ” 

Aama turned to ash later that winter. It was the only time Mondatta remembered seeing Bajai weep. 

She certainly had no tears for their father, whom she only ever referred to as “that useless son of a bitch” with no further comment. The dissonance of it leaves Mondatta adrift throughout his youth. He's her son, why doesn't she go get him and help him get better? Her silent hand on his shoulder after a bad day leaves him wondering what went wrong, and if the same will happen to him when he grows up. 

Amidst that confusion and the daily sprint to catch up to his peers in school, remains the precious constancy that is his little brother. With each passing season he grows bigger and brighter, asking more questions and getting into more trouble than he can get out of, at times. His guileless wonder and avid curiosity are Mondatta's dearest treasures, and he saves some for Mondatta himself. Even when he is still small and energetic, he listens to the stories his brother tells with agape awe. Mondatta doesn't dare start a lengthy book at night, because Zenyatta will sooner whine until dawn than fall asleep without knowing how it ends. 

“You'll put your brother to bed when you're done your homework, won't you?” Bajai asks when the news programme ends. 

“Of course.” Mondatta nods and stands up from the couch as she draws her blanket higher, preferring to spend most nights in her armchair as it eases the pains in her joints, or so she says. 

“Thank you, dear.” Bajai lightly touches his arm on the way by, her eyes opaque and fixed on the small television, but a pang of sentiment tinges her voice. “You're such a good help.” 

Mondatta smiles and bids her good night. Caring for Zenyatta is never any trouble, even when it is. It must be done, and he wishes to do well at it, striving a little bit every day to become the man he sees reflected in his brother's eyes. 

“Can I borrow another piece of paper?” Zenyatta peers over the edge of his tidy desk, a lisp to his words from his newly-missing front teeth. “I ran out of room.” 

“It's can I _have_ another piece of paper, it's not borrowing if you keep it.” Mondatta tears a page out of his notebook, catching Zenyatta's tongue poking out over his shoulder before returning to his maths textbook. “And I saw that.” 

Zenyatta makes a rather cute disgruntled noise, dropping back into his belly sprawl on the carpet and scribbling eagerly with his pencil, an atlas beneath as a writing surface. “What are you working on, anyways?” 

“Our teacher told us to write about what we're gonna do when we grow up.” Zenyatta replies, pencil moving as fast as he speaks. “I'm gonna be a baker and I'll live in a big house with a zoo in the backyard and I'm gonna marry Kuan Yin and we'll have four babies, two boys and two girls-” 

“You can't marry Kuan Yin,” Mondatta cuts in with a snort, barely able to keep from laughing. Hopefully his teacher won't mark him down for taking creative liberties, he certainly isn't about to quash the boy's endearing imagination. 

Zenyatta looks up with those bug-eyes of his, perpetually aglow as the wheels turn away behind them. “Don't worry, you're gonna marry her too. We'll live together, I'll have the top floor and you can have the bottom one, and it'll be in the valley where Aama came from.” 

_Where you came from, too,_ Mondatta longs to say. “She's immortal, she's too old for you.” 

He pouts. “No, I'm really nice! She'll like me!” 

Mondatta swallows his amusement to a mere snicker and returns to his algebra. “Finish it up then, it's getting late.” 

Zenyatta huffs but writes awhile longer, scooting over on his knees to present the smudged sheets. “Can you fix it for me?” 

“Sure.” Mondatta lays it over his worksheets, erasing and rewriting what few errors there are. “You're better at spelling than I am, I think.” 

Zenyatta beams proudly up at him, not moving from where he leans against Mondatta's thigh. “Can I help you make lunch?” 

“If you're quiet.” Why the boy found tip-toeing around a dark kitchen and packing up food for the next day so entertaining, Mondatta never knew. 

“Will you read to me?” 

“Of course.” His smile softens then. Zenyatta may not remember the temples they spent their days in, but his love of stories fantastical and ancient exceeds that of his peers, and certainly that of Mondatta's classmates. 

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” 

“If you promise not to kick me so much.” 

Zenyatta's bottom lip protrudes again as he wiggles on his knees. “I don't mean to!” 

Mondatta bends and kisses the top of his brother's head, receiving an eager cuddle in return. The earnest love almost overwhelms him, as it does on even their most ordinary nights together. “I know you don't, little star.” 

Years later, in the dedication of his first book, Mondatta will thank Bajai for paying his tuition and forcing his hand somewhat on attending a particular university, because it is there that the spark of the Shambali first strikes. Mondatta is surprised she never pays him a posthumous visit for that one, because what he really means is that without her nudging, he would never have crossed paths with Jyoti. 

They share a few classes in second semester, when Mondatta's desperate homesickness has mostly subsided, and both feel the pressure from relatives to become professors someday. They both sit in the front row, Mondatta forever with his hand up and Jyoti silent unless spoken to, but never without an eloquent response when prompted. A head shorter than him, with asymmetrical pupils courtesy of an innocuous genetic quirk. Rarely smiling but typically content. Never in a hurry, but scarcely at rest. They soon find themselves pooling their grocery money so Jyoti no longer has to smoke to subdue their appetite, and signing up for retreats at the monastery partnered with the university. 

Jyoti leads him around the bustling streets of Kathmandu, reminiscent of his childhood wanders, and eventually to the home of a widowed aunt who cheerily lets them both board in a back room so long as Jyoti comes home dressed properly. Mondatta feels prickles of pride at making his new friend laugh, the two trading inspirations and essay edits one minute and vigorously debating politics, theology, or chores the next. Yet he never feels resentment from Jyoti's side, only interest. 

They are the first one Mondatta can trust with his body, so blasé in their quiet confidence that Mondatta seeks to emulate them over time. Their evenings alone are full of shared lessons and sweet, clumsy release. It is a comfort to them both, on heavy days and cold nights and after flares of conflict or pain. The only hint being the scent of each other on their skin, but that's just as often from the sheets they sleep and study in as from each other's touch. 

In this blessed privacy, they can debrief from the outside world and discuss their inner lives without fear of judgment. The oneness they've both felt deep in meditation and prayer, the peace of mind achieved with shocking ease but too delicate to carry beyond the temple gates. Those early discussions are tinged with naivete, but Mondatta cannot bring himself to cringe at them. He recognizes the light of the Iris echoing back through their lives long before they had a name for it. 

It is Jyoti who first fans the embers near the end of their second year. Pressed to Mondatta's back while he pores over a terrifically dry communications textbook, their proper studying time always secondary to their other interests. “You have a real gift, you know. When you speak, everyone listens.” 

Mondatta chuckles, eyes on the page. “Flattery, from you? To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“I mean it.” Jyoti's jaw works against Mondatta's spine, barely a smile in their words. “Even when you're arguing with someone, they stop talking when you start. You draw people in and make them think. When I listen to you, I feel safe, almost powerful.” The arm slung around Mondatta's chest tightens, closing the space between them. “When you speak, I feel like everything will be okay.” 

Mondatta turns to meet his dear friend's eyes, serious and solid, holding Mondatta in their thrall. “You're going to do something wonderful, I'm sure of it. And whatever it ends up being, I want to be there by your side, no matter what.” 

In that moment, at the touch of blunt fingers to his cheek, Mondatta understands the definition of the word 'faith.' 

In a city that bleeds history from every crevice, there is no shortage of causes for a couple of students with dwindling commitment to academia to take up. They stick together during demonstrations on campus, marches behind hand-painted signs, or while panting in alleyways after dodging another arrest. They feel the biting sting of youthful arrogance early on, faltering beneath the weight of the deeply-rooted and nigh-incomprehensible suffering that pervades every level of every community in the entire world. The smallest step feels like a gamble, as likely to harm or do nothing as help anyone at all. 

“Do you think this is a bad idea?” Mondatta asks of Jyoti, standing at the side of a slapped-together stage, pressed in by the growing, noisy crowd that appears as inclined towards rioting as unifying. 

“Most likely,” Jyoti answers after a moment's thought. Their arm is locked around the shoulders of an entranced Zenyatta, brought here on a fib to their grandmother and strictly instructed to stay out of sight. Jyoti is under similar orders to grab him and run if things so much as hint at escalating. They smile slowly, in that terribly amused way of theirs. “But we're in need of a few bad ideas.” 

Atop the low platform, papers and a megaphone in his trembling hands, Mondatta glances back at his friend and brother. Zenyatta grins and flashes him a double thumbs-up, blissful in his eager ignorance. Jyoti simply nods, gaze unfaltering. He smiles slightly, and does his best to speak as though he were only talking to them. 

Even much later on, Mondatta is not so humble as to deny the exhilaration of an audience. It reinforces the better parts of his history and philosophy lessons. Consciousness is best experienced together. No one is entirely without heartache or hope. Most of all, there are many more people striving towards greater horizons, sharing the same values as his own, paying for a better tomorrow with only sweat and hope. 

Bajai is not quite one of these people, especially when he returns home on academic suspension. 

“-and I've worked hard all my life, do you hear me complaining? Your father was lucky to be born- Baje and I hardly saw each other, he worked so much! And all for what? So you can run around in the street making a spectacle of yourself?” She crosses her arthritic arms, smoke practically seeping from her nostrils. “To what end, Mondatta? What do you think any of this is going to accomplish?” 

Mondatta wets his lips, selecting the most succinct response. “I want life to be better, more livable, for everyone. Sacrifices are necessary-” 

“Don't you dare get started about _sacrifices.”_ Her finger vibrates an inch from his face, he doesn't flinch. “I can't believe you've turned out so selfish. You're just another young person who wants to go out and cause trouble instead of being grateful for what they have. People get killed at those things, is that what you want? To die for nothing?” 

Mondatta suspects a rhetorical question and allows a pause of burning silence before exhaling neatly through his nose. “May I go see Zenyatta now?” 

“You may, but this is the last time you drag him into this nonsense, do you hear me?” Bajai sighs, her anger tapering off. “And you and your little friend had best be back at school first thing after this week is over, I won't have you two eating through his inheritance.” 

“I wouldn't dream of it.” Mondatta stands and kisses her cheek, her angular features still rigid. He leaves her in bed, glaring out the window that overlooks the nearby bird sanctuary. She's getting up less and less each month. The nurse is a far bigger expense than Mondatta's appetite. 

Jyoti is loitering discreetly in the hall, in the same red sari they'd been wearing when the journalists had photographed them, prompting a difficult exchange with their family and an eviction from their aunt's house. They would not be able to return to school regardless, but that was a problem for tomorrow. They whisper in bewilderment. “She's really scary.” 

“Pft, that wasn't even her worst, honestly.” 

“No, but you've made a fool of yourself and she still loves you, that's the scary part.” The two of them snicker weakly as they shuffle off to Zenyatta's room. 

Mondatta is fairly tackled when they rap on the door, the preteen fastening himself tight around his middle. “I thought Bajai was gonna yell at you all night! Can you check my math for me?” 

He clicks his tongue fondly, finding the natural self-centredness of a child oddly refreshing after an hour's lecture. “I don't know if there's a point anymore. You're better at it than I ever was.” 

“Please? I got a C on my last test. Sometimes I miss one number and it messes everything up.” 

“My god,” Jyoti remarks, inspecting the textbooks atop Zenyatta's desk. “What are they teaching kids these days?” 

“Oh, I forgot to tell you!” Zenyatta jogs over to his armoire and throws open the door, retrieving a plainer grey uniform than his old blue one. “They let me skip another grade, I'm going to the secondary school now!” 

“Really?” Mondatta asks hurriedly while Jyoti lets out a short, impressed whistle. “That's impressive! Is anyone picking on you?” 

Zenyatta shakes his head. “Some of the teachers were stopping me because they thought I wasn't supposed to be there, but I've only been going a few days.” He hops back onto his bed and swings his legs, the baby fat in his cheeks bunching as he grins. “There's a group of girls who let me eat lunch with them. They're really nice, but they keep calling me cute and it's kind of annoying.” 

“They aren't wrong.” Mondatta reaches out and is sternly batted away. The distance from their grandmother's room permits them all a mischievously late hour, talking and laughing over nothing important. It's enough to leave a lump in his throat when Zenyatta hugs him goodbye at the end of the week, knowing his actions might bar him from further contact with his brother. For however short a time, it isn't an easily swallowed consequence. 

As popular as their rallies become, their spiritual bent gets them laughed out of rooms or curtly dismissed at some points. They are accused of starting a capital-C cult long before Internet conspiracy theorists so much as hear about them. Their sudden poverty compels them to borderline asceticism, and they take on the simple dress of the monks who had patiently taught and now intermittently shelter them. Their pantheistic approach leaves them permanently unanchored, but that's just how they like it. 

They don't seek converts, but dialogue. Opportunities to share with others who are left out of holy spaces for innumerable reasons, even staunch realists who still seek peace within and without. This is made somewhat difficult by their lack of capital and permanent address. Mondatta had penned a sincerely apologetic letter to his grandmother prior to his expulsion, but an empty belly is more than enough to send regret and doubt washing over him at every turn. 

Fortune smiles upon them in the form of a stout woman with black eyes and gold rings in her nose, septum, and ears. She approaches them as the crowd clears after a speech, not to argue as they've grown accustomed, but instead to express interest in 'buying what you two are selling.' 

Hiding Ditya from her husband's family is a small price to pay for the skill and connections she brings. It is with her help that they gain confidence to name the Iris and proclaim their beliefs without fear. It is only one interpretation out of many in the world, but the most fitting for their experiences and the visions they soon share together in meditation. Jyoti and Ditya are fearsome in their practicality, and before long, donations sustain their initially simplistic efforts. 

A transformative year, but not without its hitch. A frantic phone call reaches him and still he does not arrive home in time. Before Bajai can be released to the wind, before Mondatta can wrap his head around estate law and assets, Zenyatta has dropped himself out of school and taken a job from a cousin back in the valley. Grief brings out the best in no one, least of all a young man still only playing at wisdom and leadership. 

“What would possess you to-” Mondatta drags his hands down face with a near-growl. “I don't have time for this, Zenyatta! You'll have to switch schools anyway, it'll be hard enough getting you back in the right grade!” 

“But I heard you,” Zenyatta mumbles, chin sticking out and eyes red. The house seems so big and empty, much of the furniture already gone. “You said there isn't enough money for school because of the debt-” 

“Yes, and I am taking care of that! It's not something for you to concern yourself with!” 

“We need money. I'm going to get money, Ravi said he'll-” 

“No, you are not! I'm calling him, and you're going to behave yourself from now on! You. Aren't. Helping.” 

“You never let me help!” Zenyatta roars back, feet planted and tears streaming. The gap between their heights is gradually closing, but he still looks so little to him, so young with his voice cracking all over. “I won't cause you any more trouble! I can work, I can do it! Just let me-” 

“Zenyatta, _no.”_ Mondatta's arms come around his shoulders and he holds tight while Zenyatta struggles, his own tears spilling over his brother's neck. “You don't have to worry about any of that, not ever.” He sucks in a composing breath, draws back to cup his brother's flushed, sticky face. “You're going to come live with us- alright? You're not going to give up any of your dreams. I'll take care of you, I promise.” 

The solemnity of the words, an invocation to their departed caregiver as much as to Zenyatta, silence the boy for a minute or two. Still, defiance curls back his lip as he continues to weep, throat raw. “B-but who's going to take care of you?” 

Mondatta's frayed nerves spark, causing him to react with annoyance and narrowed eyes when they can't immediately comprehend the question. “I'm an adult, adults don't need to be taken care of.” He clasps Zenyatta's hand in his and tugs him halfway off his feet. “Let's go.” 

A school is found with weekday boarding, paid for out of a dwindling trust that Bajai had quietly put aside all Zenyatta's life. Transportation is arranged. An abandoned monastery is located, high up a mountain, and reclaimed with determined hands. Their successful advocating for food aid for the village below is returned with kindness, a few helping hands, and a young family willing to take phone calls from Zenyatta's school. Sweaty and aching, Mondatta can at last return wholeheartedly to prayer, the Iris as welcoming and patient as always. 

International eyes fall upon them and draw interest to their new home. Intrigued photographers, spiritual tourists seeking an awakening holiday, and the more inspired attendees of Mondatta's speeches. They treat all with tact and care, and some come to stay. Mondatta ascribes no special abilities to himself, but he can sense an undefinable quality in the eyes of those who choose their way of life. Not purity or deference– those aren't even preferable qualities in most cases –but a compassionate spirit that resists the wounds of life to which no one is immune. 

Their halls fill with brothers and sisters from all paths. Codes of conduct are polished, vows are agreed upon and taken, ideas germinate into projects. Mondatta is rarely certain of what they're doing, but the universe has never prized certainty. Rather than fretting over outcomes, he walks down to the village and takes his time wandering back up the winding path. He lets his thoughts blow about with the wind, immersing himself in the scent of the air and the gentle pace as his robes flutter at his ankles, a sort of meditation in motion. Perhaps Zenyatta's escapes to the garden to daydream with the butterflies aren't so far- 

A booming, unfamiliar laugh startles his focus back to the present as he rounds the last curve up to the gates of the monastery. His spine snaps straight at the sight of an enormous frame draped in military fatigues and perched on a boulder, but his eyes just as quickly land upon Zenyatta, sitting beside their apparent guest and giggling merrily. 

Tightening his hands behind his back, he approaches and draws his brother's attention, prompting him to excitedly wave him over. “I've made a new friend today, dai!” 

“I can see that.” Mondatta smiles mildly, eyes lifting as the man stands. A foot above him, no mean feat, with straw-blonde hair falling over his shoulders and a prominent scar marring otherwise steadfast features. “May I make his acquaintance, or am I cramping your style?” 

Zenyatta's usual _tsk_ is lost beneath another boisterous guffaw. The man lays a hand over his heart and bows slightly with a grin that could outshine the moon. “Reinhardt Wilhelm, at your service! You must be Mondatta.” 

Mondatta bows politely in turn, amusement quickly erasing fear. It was to be the first of many meetings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying the fic so far! I have been trying to write this story off and on for about ten months (oof, embarrassing), Mondatta is very dear to my heart and deserves more love and exploration, so here's my take. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

Reinhardt visits the monastery time and time again. Laughter echoing over the slopes, lifting Zenyatta with one arm and his wheelchair with the other, like some green man of fairy tales. Some of the others are initially hesitant, conflicted over allowing an active soldier into their sanctuary. But Reinhardt, for all the physical space he occupies, never oversteps. He does not press, apologizes if he talks over anyone, and shows himself to be a listener of the rarest quality. Even the most unsure monks (calling themselves otherwise seemed a distinction without a difference at some point, swathed in orange and eating charity as they are) warm up to him before long, the man as willing to share pain as a tall tale. 

A virtuous man is not so rare as cynics claim, but the nobility of Reinhardt's spirit is something unique indeed. 

On these stays between his lengthy, secretive missions, Mondatta is obliged to stay up late and talk until his throat rasps. Reinhardt is no Don Quixote, his bombasity instead tempered with grace and humour. He teases Mondatta into sparing the modulated tone he uses for crowds, but lets him speak freely of the ecstasy and harmony he feels within the Iris. His own stories fade into subdued, vulnerable recollections, compelling Mondatta to offer tentative, comforting touches to his arm or shoulder when words fail. 

Sometimes they leave sentimentality and missteps behind entirely, sitting as still as votive flames in the garden, watching the ballet of stars above. 

“You'll be careful, won't you?” Mondatta asks of him when his appearances become as regular and anticipated as the seasons. Their reach is growing so much wider than Mondatta could have ever expected, and his presence is being requested far from their home. His time spent in the monastery is beginning to feel like respite rather than mundanity. 

“Care I cannot promise,” Reinhardt chuckles as he shoulders his pack, the sun catching his golden hair. “But so long as I am able, I will return to you.” 

Mondatta has little time then to quibble over a collective versus a singular 'you.' There is much work to be done, and if he is to dedicate himself as he's asked those at his side, he has no room for indolence. He finds himself writing a book- a larger task than inflated university daydreams prepared him for. He's speaking to larger and larger crowds of people who clutch signs that plead for their right to choose, to love, to exist- the energy he feels cannot be denied, and deserves to be used for good. If he can inspire even a small group, plant mere seeds of positive change, then he can lay his head down at night and rest. 

Zenyatta will experience enough youth for them both, marked and shorn by Jyoti's steady hand on the straight-razor, but attending classes and parties instead of afternoon meditation and study. A more tranquil fearlessness has overtaken him since his recovery. His tongue is quick, but his mind is quicker. He all but abjures the contemplative path, priding himself on a life spent amongst people, elbow-deep in the work that holds the community of the world together. 

When he assumes the name Tekhartha, Mondatta hesitates, worries that Zenyatta thinks he must mould himself into something more acceptable, that anything would keep Mondatta from supporting and loving him. The kind brush-off he receives is a relief. 

“I know what I've experienced. I know that I believe in the Iris, and in you.” Zenyatta replies readily, offering a slight smile, shining with mirth. “In spite of everything, I know that I belong here.” 

Mondatta did not appreciate it enough back then, that irretrievable feeling of home. It was too easily forgotten on a bone-chilly morning, as they mixed whitewash to cover another layer of ugly words spray-painted across the outer wall. 

“They're getting more determined,” Tenzing notes, a tension beneath his calm tone as he slings his cane over his wrist to hold the ladder steady. “How long before one hops the gate?” 

“I don't know,” Yungchen says with forced levity, lashing her brush mightily against the wall. “How long before Brother Mondatta's next scandalous, blasphemous tirade?” 

“I publish one article on queer theology and it gives this cowardice all the fuel it needs.” Mondatta shakes his head, carrying another bucket to the other end of the vicious scrawl. “Such vitriol must eat a soul alive. We cannot let ourselves be intimidated, it only affirms their hatred.” 

“Still, an alarm might not be such a bad idea,” Ditya is heard to say as the mountain winds whip up around them. 

To his brothers and sisters' credit, they remain staunch despite such incidents continuing for the many months leading up to Mondatta's speech in London. 

The memory of turning and the bullet cutting through him is crisp but painless, the memories of waking up afterwards are the opposite. It is a gradual process, the medication and his slowly healing body leaving him alert for only moments at a time. Later, he counts back the days of his coma, retroactively rendering the first glimpse of Zenyatta's face all the more painful. 

He seems to materialize over the plastic railing, his face heavy and his eyes raw, a mirror of Mondatta's own state during that too-painful slice of memory. He manages to lift a hand to clumsily cup his brother's cheek, his voice coarse from the intubation scars inside his trachea. “I'm so sorry for scaring you, my little star.” 

Zenyatta's surprised expression collapses instantly and he weeps as a child would, Jyoti appearing over his shoulder and holding them both. Consciousness becomes more sustainable after that. 

Ditya had sent all her love but stayed behind when they flew out, managing everything from home and doing a superb job of it. A king of old could not ask for a better seneschal. He thanks her over the telephone at the first opportunity before she takes his statement by dictation. Forgiving the shooter is no performance, though some of his detractors decry it as such. He pictures the innocent child they once were, and the adult they might have become had love intervened, had their motives not been poisoned. There is no justice behind bars, but that is out of his hands. 

He stays in hospital longer than he would prefer, the doctors sketching on notepads to show the 'miraculous' path of the bullet. Mere centimetres to the right and no amount of donated blood or skilled surgeons could have saved him. Mondatta preaches a degree of positive nihilism, firm in his stance that no one is inherently more or less deserving of anything, good or bad, and that the Iris- the universe itself is beautifully, absurdly random. Practical lessons are always the hardest to learn. 

“How are you holding up, my friend?” Reinhardt's gentle smile glows with kindness as he takes a seat in the too-small plastic chair after being waved in. 

“Physically, mentally, or spiritually?” Mondatta quips, scratching at the thick gauze under his blue gown. The wound beneath is long, jagged, and hasty, smaller lines branching off much like the veins of a leaf. The one at his lower back feels larger, though he has not seen it yet. 

Reinhardt's expression softens in the sickly fluorescent light. “Are the answers different?” 

“Unfortunately, yes.” Mondatta confesses, but does not let his smile waver. The guilt he's discouraged others from feeling over causing the ones they love to worry, he now carries in excess. 

They sit in silence for a moment or two. “I hope you'll forgive me for not coming sooner. I did not wish to intrude.” 

“Oh, not at all. Zenyatta will be happy to see you.” 

“Hah, that I don't doubt,” Reinhardt hums, his elbows resting upon his knees. “You know, I have seen brushes with death change many. Not always right away. For all my boasting, I have not escaped such changes either.” 

Mondatta nods, looking a little past him into the infinite whiteness of the room. He knows, of Balderich and battles and horrors unseen. Reinhardt does not spare his sensibilities as others do, and he appreciates that. 

“The most galling of all, I think-” Reinhardt continues, a bluntness beneath his musing tone. “And I did not always think this way, I must admit- were the ones who branded themselves as weak, decided that a crisis of faith was anything less than expected after such an experience- Ah, those were the saddest cases, always.” He clasps Mondatta's shoulder, mindful not to jostle him, and looks at him straight-on, which even the doctors have failed to do. “You may be damaged, my dear friend, but you are far from broken.” 

Mondatta swallows and does not speak, numbly feeling the warmth and roughness of the man's palm through the thin cotton. After a time, Reinhardt reaches down and roots around in the bag he brought with him. “Ah, I nearly forgot.” 

He raises his eyebrows at the large, brimming containers stacked one by one atop the small side table, a better vegetarian spread than the hospital can provide, so his friend claims. “Thank you, that is very kind. I'll have the nurses put them in the fridge.” 

“Ah, no trouble, no trouble. I knew you'd be overwhelmed with flowers,” Reinhardt smiles, gesturing to the ridiculous floral spray on the windowsill behind him before plopping something small into his lap. A teddy bear, dressed in doctor's whites with a cloth stethoscope around its neck. “I saw him in the gift shop and thought he deserved a home. Cute, isn't he?” 

“Thank you.” Mondatta's words are distant to his own ears. Something shudders inside his mind, like a stone in an avalanche finally coming to rest amidst the dust and destruction. He starts to shake and clasps the toy to his chest. He does not stop. 

Reinhardt, a decorated hero of strength and valour, rubs his back with all the tenderness a mother would reserve for a newborn, minding where the gown falls open and not looking away from the display despite its length. Mondatta is slumped over, arms tight around himself by the time he locates his words. “I'm sorry, I- sorry.” 

“No need,” his friend replies simply and squeezes his nearest hand, a gesture that will crystallize and preserve like amber in his memory. He sits back as Mondatta composes himself and squints out the sliver of dingy window, crow's feet bunching at the corners of his eyes. “Raining again? Mein Gott, how does anyone get vitamin D in this country?” 

At that, despite the profound soreness in his body and soul, Mondatta stifles a giggle. 

He is soon permitted to convalesce in a hotel room, returning for additional procedures and consultations before receiving the all-clear. His frailty saps some resolve from him, which does not escape notice. As he sits in the bath, face pressed to his knees while dear Jyoti scrubs the medical tape residue from his skin, he catches himself trembling and is quickly cradled wordlessly against Jyoti's chest. 

At night, the second bed goes unused as Zenyatta and Jyoti secure themselves to his back and front. His days are spent in thought, research, and prayer or else in discussion with Reinhardt, while encouraging his brother and friend to discreetly trek around London in hats and street clothes. After a lengthy plane ride home, he indulges in a few restful, misty-eyed days with the others before addressing them at supper. 

“Reinhardt has offered us use of his land in the town that he summers in.” Mondatta folds his hands on the table and continues in the held silence. “I intend to relocate there, along with anyone who wishes to join me. I will not force any of you, but I cannot continue here. The risk has become too great.” 

A dozen voices talk over each other at once before Ditya skilfully settles them down, save Zenyatta who is back in his dorm for the first time in weeks. Their discussion had been in private the previous night and Zenyatta hadn't let him finish, pulling Mondatta in tight. “If you're going, then I'm coming with you.” 

His sweet brother, his first student, it chokes him even now. 

“Will we really be safer there?” Sita questions first, eyes wide and bottom lip between her teeth. 

“There are many advantages to living somewhere with more security and tolerance of dissent.” Mondatta exhales slowly through his nose. “I'll be retaining permanent guards from now on, but it is not enough. Things will have to be different, our home must be a place of safety.” 

“The vandalism has gotten much worse lately,” Nawang adds, lips curled to one side. “I suppose it doesn't really matter where we go.” 

“Yes, it does!” Tshering slams her fists on the table, tears standing in her eyes. Her military past leaves her prone to fits of temper and right-fighting, both hard to fault. “We can't just give in like this! You're the one who told us not to be intimidated- we'll be hypocrites if we leave now!” 

“You'd rather us become martyrs?” Jyoti pipes up at his elbow, eyes narrowed as disparate murmurs well up all around them. “Why would they stop after one failure? We might as well paint targets on our backs!” 

“That is _not_ what I meant-” 

The discussion breaks apart, not uncommon, though rarely so loud and discordant. Ditya reaches out to touch Mondatta's wrist when she spots the pinch in his brow. “We do not need to decide tonight. Isn't that right, brother?” 

“No, but we cannot afford further mistakes.” Mondatta replies sternly, his siblings hushing, though he almost wishes they wouldn't this time. “I will not compel any of you to leave, but I will do whatever is needed to ensure your safety-” His voice breaks then, burying his face in his hands. “Your lives are so precious to me.” 

A few murmur his name after a breath, but he stands, eyes away and bowl still half-full. “Discuss it amongst yourselves, I've made my decision.” 

Some of the rooms upstairs are rarely used, their patchwork family preferring to cluster together. He folds himself into lotus and tries to meditate, but cannot, the anguished lump in his throat more distracting than any physical pain. How readily he had endorsed the idea that all loss is equal, that the loss of a reef or a tree or a person are all one within the Iris. Each breath is borrowed, after all, and death is nothing to be feared. 

But he isn't ready to die. 

He had lived by chance. His mother had died by chance. Now he understands the true unfairness of it. Thousands of precious and worthy lives are ended each day by disease and violence and indifference. All are equal, that truth remains unchanged, and all are equally, impossibly fragile, and yet- 

_And yet-_

He wants to live. He wants his family and friends to live. He will gladly place them above all others, do whatever can be done to protect their happiness, and give in to being the exact false-guru huckster that some claim him to be, endorsing precepts he doesn't follow. But he wants them to live. 

He falls asleep eventually, waking cold and uncomfortable as the sun rises. To reach the inner sanctuary where morning prayer is held, he has to pass through the dining hall only to find all of them in yesterday's robes, looking as tired as he feels. 

“We are decided,” Yungchen says with a barely-there smile, her gift for smaller scale oratory usually bestowed upon the children that climb the road with their mothers to visit her makeshift preschool. “We will go with you, all of us.” 

“For a number of reasons,” Ditya adds with a nod, one arm around Tshering's robust shoulders. Mondatta suspects her of doing some convincing, but she'll never take credit for it. 

“Your perseverance fills me with gratitude,” Mondatta replies after a thought, an exposed note in his voice. “But it isn't as though we're leaving today-” 

“Please, don't argue with us, brother.” Pema interrupts, rubbing some grit from her eye, looking especially small tucked against her mountainous twin Bishal's side. “Some of us are dangerously close to breaking our vows of non-violence.” 

The joke is met with laughter by some and half-hearted scolding by others, but it underlines the point, the hope shining from all of their faces. They believe in him, in themselves as the Shambali, and he must return that sincere belief twofold. 

It is summer's end by the time they shutter the beloved old monastery and leave with one suitcase apiece. Donations are never to be refused, the choice of someone to give something of their own must be respected. But Mondatta is sorely tempted otherwise when they arrive on Reinhardt's property to find camping trailers to sleep in and pallets of brick and wood laid out under tarps, awaiting the tools and labour that will shape them into a home. 

“I have friends in many places!” Reinhardt declares, beaming and hand-waving their collective fretting. “My house is not so big, and it's going to get cold soon. None of you will be any good to anyone half-frozen, hm?” 

There is some construction knowledge among their set, but Reinhardt's short-statured Swedish friend is keen to fill in their gaps and draw up blueprints. Mondatta's formal inquiry as to how his kindness might be returned is met with a distracted huff and a gesture towards where Zenyatta and Bastion sit in the grass, playing some sort of character card game with the younger Lindholms. “The free babysitting is payment enough.” 

The walls go up at a surprising pace. They eat outside if the weather is amenable and in Reinhardt's living and dining rooms if it isn't. Mondatta feels stronger now than he did some months ago, but he's still barred from lifting anything significant, the metal that sutures his bones together making itself known if he tries. He reminds himself about ability not dictating worth, but is humbled again by how difficult it is to internalize. 

He sits on a boulder and tries to fill his schedule again, not wanting to stay hidden for longer than necessary, but his pauses between typing are long and blank. There is much to love here at the pine forest's edge, but he misses the mountains and the kind visitors from the village below, the markets and the friendly street dogs, the common history and the familiar peace he is not entirely certain they can recreate. 

More concerning is those of their order who left loved ones behind. Not all of them were orphaned or cast out. Their youngest member, for instance, has a dear sister with a family of her own who had gifted them with what little she could offer before they bid a heartbreaking goodbye at the airport. He searches her face now for regret, finding none as she tiptoes up to where Shing kneels before a few two-by-fours, pencilling out measurements until the younger woman drops an ice cube down her back. 

“Si-ta!” Shing breaks her name on a screech as she scrabbles up, chasing after her as she lopes around the corner of the monastery-to-be, laughing outrageously. “You're so sneaky!” 

He smiles for some time after they've disappeared. Ditya presses a glass of lemonade into his hands on her way by. The angle of the exit wound had cost him a kidney, and while his siblings are kind enough not to openly pity him, they are concerned with his hydration, amongst other things. 

“What are you puzzling over this time?” 

Mondatta flinches, more easily startled now, then turns to smile at the wall of shirtless military man dropping down to rest beside him, switching to his somewhat rudimentary German. “I'm wondering if I made the right choice.” 

“Ah, I suspected as much.” Reinhardt nods somewhat wistfully before he pulls from his water bottle, his throat bobbing with each drink. For all that Torbjörn has dubbed him obnoxious, he offers the most companionable silences Mondatta has ever known. 

“I trust your honesty, Reinhardt. Do you think I'm a coward?” 

He feels pale eyes come to rest on his profile, sees Reinhardt's hand flex on his knee. “You asked me once why I chose the life of a soldier?” Mondatta nods, perplexed by his ducking the question. “The Shambali are only one of many examples- living peacefully as you are, and yet there are those who would do you harm. This is why I choose to fight.” He turns his gaze back to the half-built walls. “You are no coward. You made a difficult decision in service of protecting innocent lives, I couldn't respect you more if I tried.” 

Mondatta's lips twitch into a slim smile as he watches the monks and Torbjörn's older children bustling around the skeleton of their new home. Here Liu lays brick and here Nawang stakes out what will someday be a chicken pen and here Brigitte and Shikha carefully walk a support beam through the newly-finished back door, all covered in dust and muck and sweat. “So, no regrets then, about letting a bunch of rabble-rousers seek refuge on your front lawn?” 

Reinhardt laughs loudly with his head tipped back, showing off a few silver fillings in his molars. The late September sun sets the thin silver in his yellow hair alight, his spirit visible and vital even when he's covered in dirt from labouring the day away, even as the sweat sticks to the impressive cords of his chest and abdomen. His smile is sweet, as charming as any storybook knight. “Never! It is a blessing to have you so near!” 

When Reinhardt is called away for use of his height and capable arms, Mondatta's eyes are stuck upon his broad back, a flutter in his chest suddenly uncaged. Revelations, he's had many, but none quite like this. 

His love for Jyoti, he wears as a seal upon his heart, a brand upon his skin. This is different, and dreadfully uncertain. 

Their new home is livable, if not completely finished by the time Mondatta succeeds in hiring bodyguards. One of them so happens to be their dear friend who, in a gesture of true generosity, refuses payment as he makes enough from his tours of duty and 'would be travelling anyway, it's time better spent in good company.' 

The world spins on. There are drafts to edit, prayers to be said, invitations to answer. If he is to contribute his verse, to make anything of his consciousness, he cannot be distracted, cannot be compromised. Pressing forward is all he knows. 

Like the tap water he forces into himself following a brief collapse in a single-use toilet in London, not far from where he's just given a defiant speech on the very spot he'd been struck down. The weakness concealed not out of self-loathing, but in the interests of dignity. Still, there is little relief found in the temporary hell of retching with a binder on. 

“You'll keep this between us, won't you, Alexander?” He asks on lifting his head, drawing a befuddled shrug from the red-haired, stocky young man leaning against the bathroom door. 

“I've got no one to tell, boss.” A pause. “Are you alright?” 

“Quite.” He smiles in the mirror, wipes the sweat from his face, and falls into line behind him as they exit. There is still much to do. 

Even so, the trips with Reinhardt carry their own challenges. Their knees touching on the plane, a strong hand between his shoulders when the crowds press too close, the slumbering presence of him in the next bed in a beige hotel room. For the first time since his youth, finding his breath in meditation is a more than an exercise in spiritual muscle memory. Reinhardt is set on being endearing, every word and kind gesture spilling more fondness into Mondatta's chest. 

And never mind the sightings of a well-furred chest, unassuming feats of strength with rippling muscles, the way his growing beard accentuates his handsome features- Mondatta is grateful for their embracing of healthy sexuality. If he were any other monk, he'd be a disgrace. 

Zenyatta's conspicuous selection of a certain track by The Police every time he catches Mondatta staring is bold and exceptionally unhelpful, but he expects nothing less from him. They've spent too many years side-by-side to effectively conceal anything. Not that there's anything to be done. No, it is best to be satisfied with keeping him in his life, admiring him in the same way so many do- 

“-Because it's better to be in love with the idea of him, than to actually get to know him and attempt a relationship?” Zenyatta's tone is bitingly flat as he glares over the rim of his chiya. 

“That isn't what I said or meant.” Mondatta sips primly from his own mug. “But if you insist on taking it that way, I'm not going to waste my breath arguing with you.” 

Zenyatta's eyebrow twitches up. He polishes off his drink and sighs at length. “You are un-fucking-believable sometimes, do you know that?” 

“Mind your tone.” 

“I most certainly won't.” Zenyatta shifts, resting one elbow on the table. They're savouring a moment's rest in the smaller sitting room near Mondatta and Jyoti's room, saved mostly for intimate guests or sibling disagreements. “You've been mooning over him for years, every day I watch you pine is like torture.” 

“Your hyperbole is hardly convincing,” Mondatta frowns. “And it hasn't been years.” 

“Just because you didn't notice doesn't mean the rest of us haven't.” Zenyatta drags his finger around the rim of his cup, making the ceramic quietly sing. “He probably has, too. What's your basis for all this, aside from a fear of rejection?” 

“It's unnecessary, and inappropriate besides. I'm technically his employer now.” 

“Oh, and I'm sure that wasn't on purpose.” 

Mondatta sighs harshly. His little brother never fails to locate his thin spots. “What makes you such a relationship expert, hm? Please, regale me with your expertise on this topic.” 

Zenyatta merely shrugs, rarely one to be baited. “Point, I've been on more dates than you.” 

“Counterpoint, none worth bringing home to introduce, or even to describe in detail.” 

Zenyatta's expression wrinkles, almost frog-like in its disgust. “As soon as I find one that isn't fixated on fitting in the 'Does it still work?' question over dinner, I will.” 

Mondatta's expression instantly mirrors his brother's. “Please tell me you're joking.” 

“How I wish I was.” 

“Oh, my.” Mondatta scrubs a hand over his face, at a loss for words. “You're always challenging my faith in humanity, I think I appreciate that. Not so much in this moment, but generally.” 

“It's what you keep me around for,” Zenyatta smiles, though his eyes retain their baleful stare out the window, watching frosty branches shake in the wind. “Perhaps it's the apps I use. There might be a better selection just a click away.” 

“Perhaps,” Mondatta hums, tilting the last few drops around the bottom of his cup. “Which ones do you use?” 

Zenyatta stiffens noticeably, lips pursing. “None of your business.” 

“What? Why-” A few statistics scroll through Mondatta's head, mixing with a protective instinct that will never leave him, even when he and his brother are in their sunset years. He clears his throat. “Zenyatta, if you're having financial difficulty, you must know that it would be no trouble for us to assist you.” 

“What are you- oh, Mondatta!” Zenyatta claps a hand to his face. “I'm not on _those_ kind of dating sites! If I was, do you really think I'd bother working tech support?” 

“Well thank goodness, but that's just it.” Mondatta frowns and glances off. He had used his connections in a rare way to ensure that Zenyatta's degree was recognized and he could attend graduate school here. He can't personally lobby for every student with international credentials to receive the same treatment, though he wants to, just further proof that warrants Zenyatta's occasional criticisms about the Shambali turning more talk than action as of late. “I don't want you stretching yourself too thin. Most students need at least a little help, and you never ask for anything-” 

“Because I don't _need_ anything,” Zenyatta insists, palms up and eyes considerably softer. “I'm not paying rent, my fellowship covers my tuition, and I work so I can do the things I want, including occasionally going on terrible dates.” He reaches across the table to affectionately squeeze Mondatta's hand. “Don't worry so much, dai. I'm fine, everything is fine.” 

Mondatta smiles slowly, squeezing his hand in turn. “You say that when you've been up late all this week studying for exams and grading everyone else's, that concealer doesn't fool me.” 

“It's a temporary state from which I will be liberated in due time.” Zenyatta smirks, quoting his own words back at him. “We've gotten off-track, we were talking about you.” 

“Doesn't your shift start soon?” 

“I have-” Zenyatta glances at his cell phone, multiple charms dangling from it. “Two minutes to spare.” 

“One minute and fifty-five seconds now.” 

Zenyatta sighs in defeat. “You are incorrigible. I'm not dropping this, just to be clear.” 

“If you insist,” Mondatta replies lightly. He watches Zenyatta lift himself into his chair and head out, mumbling to himself about where he could have possibly left his mittens. He brushes the disagreement away like a mosquito. Pining implies he's consumed by his one-sided feelings, to the exclusion of everything else, and that's simply not true. There are many other things occupying his thoughts. A second book, an address to the UN, an endless calendar of protests and celebrations. 

It is never glory he chases, nor recognition. A thousand handshakes with a thousand leaders mean nothing to him. Ditya screens their email, but lets him read and gradually respond to the genuine letters. From young couples who found the courage to be proud of their love, hospice patients making peace with their journey's end, physical letters containing one, two, five-year sobriety chips. His small wooden box is replaced by a cedar chest, one of the few possessions he won't eschew. Tossing away such earnest messages seems cruel, and he sometimes needs the reminder that the work they do and the truth they speak is good, that it is necessary. 

He walks at dusk by their friend's side when he is home, and does his best to put away fruitless worry when he is not. 

“There you are, we're making your favourite!” Bishal informs him over his shoulder as he stirs the stew, Liu at his side vigorously chopping green onions. “I hope you're staying more than a night this time, we've missed you.” 

Mondatta smiles and rolls up his sleeves to help. It is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I have an excess of details about each of the Shambali that have nothing to do with anything and probably won't be used in any fic? Yes, yes I do. Maybe I'll fit them into a bonus chapter somewhere.   
> Also since this is set in a modern AU rather than the canon timeline, I'm keeping certain story elements vague because fic is Definitely Not the place to explore real-world politics in depth, I hope it doesn't make for a distracting read.


	3. Chapter 3

Internal forces soon conspire against him. Or rather, it seems Zenyatta has a big mouth. 

Ditya pulls her lined shawl tight and kneels beside him at the steaming washtub, a basket of laundry tucked under one arm. “My divorce papers arrived in the post this morning.” 

Mondatta's eyebrows nearly meet his hairline. “Really?” 

“Not even an invoice for the shipping, I was duly surprised.” She dumps the whole batch of robes and underclothes into the water, followed by a scoop of borax powder. “I wasn't expecting it, but the closure is appreciated.” 

“Indeed, I wonder why he bothered after all this time.” Mondatta hisses when he reaches into the water. The December air is comparatively mild, but the difference in temperature is enough to sting. 

“I can't imagine and I don't care,” Ditya smiles, an almost sing-song note in her voice. “I didn't think it was possible, but I really am entirely happy on my own. Well, on my own with everyone else, that is.” 

“I'm glad,” Mondatta nods kindly at her. “We are blessed to count you among us.” 

“Flatterer.” Jyoti coughs on their way by, flashing a smirk at Mondatta as they carry the first wet load off to the drying racks set up in the bathroom. 

“Now what about you?” Ditya muses innocently, drawing his attention back to her doll-like eyes as she joins him in working orange cloth against the washboards. “Are you similarly content?” 

“Of course.” 

“So you don't ever think about romance, companionship, the like?” 

A small sigh escapes him. “I don't know what you've heard, but no.” 

Ditya hums at length, eyes on her task and voice cool. “Just asking, brother. No need to be touchy.” 

“Forgive me, sister, but it isn't like you to be so unnecessarily cryptic.” 

“In that case, let me take another approach.” Ditya glances at him across the suds. “Don't you think that Reinhardt misses you, specifically, when he's away?” 

Mondatta's brow furrows. “No, why would he?” 

Ditya's expression falls to a frown and she returns her gaze to the washing. “Iris help me, it's worse than I thought.” 

“Is there a reason you're pestering me about this? My personal life is of no importance to anyone but myself. The same goes for Reinhardt, and you as well.” 

“Perhaps you're right,” Ditya replies matter-of-factly, teeth gritting as she strains to wring out a pair of longjohns. “But what initially drew me to you was your lack of artifice, I had never seen someone speak or carry themselves so authentically. So now when I see you acting like some world-weary old man who doesn't have time for this or that, quite frankly it pisses me off.” 

Mondatta scarcely opens his mouth before Nawang appears with questions for both of them about the monthly inventory and the food hampers. Supper follows, then prayer, and he finds himself confiding in Jyoti, who kindly waits to contradict him. “We just worry about you, and Reinhardt, also. All alone in that cottage, and you won't even look his way.” 

“He could go on dates with anyone he wishes, perhaps he doesn't want to.” Mondatta's tone is curt as the snow of the courtyard crunches beneath their feet, the others already inside. 

“When?” Jyoti asks just as tartly. “He spends his free time following you all over the world.” 

The criticism lands as a bulls-eye. “You're right, he is loyal to a fault. Perhaps I should relieve him of his duties.” 

“Or perhaps you could make each other very happy.” 

“I'm not unhappy!” Mondatta nearly snaps back, sensitive and exposed after multiple inquisitions. “And I have more important things to worry about, it's not a worthwhile risk.” 

“Okay, fine, but you might at least consider it.” Jyoti folds their arms across their chest, the pale pink shawl Mondatta had purchased for them many years ago tight around their shoulders. Their voice goes low. “Maybe then you can stop asking me for what I can't give you.” 

His chest tightens like a fist. “Jyoti-” 

At the approach of a kiss, their head jerks sharply away. “Mondatta, don't.” 

His friend retreats inside in respectful silence, leaving Mondatta alone, his breath fogging in the air. Disagreeing, sleeping separate- not new to them, but no less painful. 

He dodges the others as they gather to watch the evening news before bed, nearly tripping over Zenyatta just outside his room. He's still dolled up handsomely in cool pastels, but his carefully-applied makeup is mostly gone and there's more than one pale bruise peering over the collar of his off-the-shoulder sweater. “A successful evening, was it?” 

“Wouldn't you like to know?” Zenyatta giggles airily, fiddling with the door handle before managing to open it. Mondatta catches the slightest whiff of champagne from him, and that has him curious indeed. 

Feeling somewhat lighter, he follows his brother inside, regarding him with a smile. “So, do I get to meet this one?” 

“Well, it's not exactly a romantic arrangement.” Zenyatta snickers again, rifling through his drawers to find a set of pajamas, laying them out alongside a hand mirror and cloth. “Not to worry, he's a perfect gentleman. Besides, you've met him already.” 

That draws a question mark in Mondatta's mind. “What do you mean?” 

Zenyatta smile is demure and altogether pleased. “Remember the partnership you turned down a couple months ago?” 

It takes a moment- the Shambali receive many offers, some of them disingenuous, from various foundations looking to legitimize or bolster their charitable efforts. However, he only knows of one representative who came back to town recently. “Not Akande?” 

Zenyatta's cheeky laugh is answer enough and Mondatta feels a throb in his temples. “No, absolutely not. This is completely inappropriate, he could be using you to try and get to me.” 

His brother's expression turns glaring and sour. “Of course, because why else would he be interested in me?” 

“That isn't what I meant, Zenyatta.” Mondatta pinches the bridge of his nose, feet itching to pace in frustration. “You remember how persistent he was. And besides, a man with that kind of wealth can't see anyone else as an equal. You are much too trusting. There's plenty of other people you can date who won't-” 

“Like _who?_ ” Zenyatta rounds on him, flushed with a rage that shocks Mondatta into silence. “Do you have _any_ idea how hard it is to get anyone to pay attention to me? Even when they do, trying to go anywhere or do anything is such an _inconvenience_ that they usually give up!” 

“Zenyatta-” 

His brother is nearly spitting, his gestures harsh as he continues. “I finally have someone interested in me and of course, you don't approve. Well, I don't need your approval! I'm an adult, and I know you'd prefer otherwise, but I'm not just going to sit around here forever! I want my own life!” 

“I want you to have your own life!” 

Zenyatta swivels back around. “Good for you, get the hell out.” 

“Please, listen to-” 

“I said _get out!”_

Mondatta retreats into the dim hall, Zenyatta's roaring scowl burned into his eyelids. He spends half the night beneath the moon, statue-still in thought on the back veranda, watching the woods shiver and creak beyond their property. Jyoti appears around three and insists he come to bed. He won't allow himself to be held, sleeping shallowly on the furthest edge of the mattress, mind full and limbs heavy. 

“I wish I understood you better,” Jyoti remarks wistfully against his bare shoulder the next morning. “You're so consistently disappointed in yourself for being human.” 

Jyoti's assessments are fiendishly accurate and this is no different. He laughs dryly to spare his friend the selfish, unnecessary tears. 

Zenyatta has multiple classes the next day, and Mondatta his own tasks. By the time he returns from the interfaith committee meeting, it is past sunset and Zenyatta is swaddled in a too-big sweatshirt and hunched over his laptop in their modest library. His eyes dart guiltily in Mondatta's direction, fingers stilling on his keyboard. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-” 

“No, please, don't apologize.” Mondatta takes a seat behind him. Zenyatta looks back in surprise until Mondatta wraps his arms around him. “You were right to be angry with me, my words were careless. You are more than capable of making good decisions. Even if you weren't, you're no longer a child. I need to treat you with more respect.” 

“Still, I shouldn't have yelled at you.” Zenyatta replies after a pause, laying his arms over Mondatta's and leaning into him. His voice is small when he speaks again, their foreheads touching. “It's all just so _frustrating,_ sometimes.” 

“I know,” Mondatta whispers, tightening his arms just so. They're the same height now, but Zenyatta is thinner in the middle. He makes a note to add more protein to their shopping list. “You needn't cater to my fretting, but if he was- buying you presents and that sort of thing, you would tell me, wouldn't you?” 

“I would, but it's nothing like that.” Zenyatta turns away, scratching his cheek and flushing. “He doesn't care that you turned him down, he's found another project. It's- just, some fun now and then, nothing serious.” 

“Nothing wrong with that,” Mondatta reassures, chuckling and immensely relieved. He sets his chin on Zenyatta's shoulder, fitting himself more comfortably to his back. “What are you working on, if you don't mind me asking?” 

“Oh, it's my thesis! I have to develop a program proposal as if I was actually writing a grant application, down to the last detail.” Zenyatta gestures to his document, a mess of text blocks, bullet points, and colourful graphs. “You'd probably find it boring, but honestly, I'm having a blast.” 

“No, please, tell me all about it.” Mondatta insists until Zenyatta starts, and when his brother starts he cannot be stopped. Zenyatta carries on adding to the project as he describes the different aspects of his fictional shelter proposal with as much excitement as if it were real. Mondatta smiles and stays close, listening to every word. 

The following spring, Zenyatta's thesis defense nets him a prize and a recommendation for the internship he's had his eye on for months. Mondatta couldn't be happier or less surprised. 

After a busy morning with Alexander at his side, Mondatta takes himself on a lengthy stroll to the edge of the woods and back, allowing his thoughts to come and go in the midsummer sun. On his way back to one of their study rooms, he spots Sita silently sweeping the courtyard walkways. A near-opponent of their insistence on mindful actions, Sita rarely completes her daily chores without giving voice and movement to the symphony ever-playing in her mind. “Is something troubling you, sister?” 

“Ah! Hello, brother.” Sita's smile is more a suggestion than her usual beam of confidence. “Not exactly. More just- caught up in my own thoughts, I guess.” 

Mondatta inclines his head kindly as she rests her chin on the broom handle. “Would you be willing to share them with me? It might help to untangle them.” 

Sita hesitates, another oddity, chewing on her lip before she speaks. “Actually- I've been wanting to ask you a question, but I can't find the right way to say it.” 

Mondatta smiles, a rush of sweetness in his heart alongside a small, sympathetic ache. Save Zenyatta, Sita is their youngest and newest member. Having joined them straight from secondary school, she has been aware of her naivete from the beginning and has endured more than one episode of self-consciousness as result. “Then ask me honestly, apologies can always be made later.” 

Sita huffs a laugh and rocks back on her heels. “Very well. Then I guess my question is- do you think it's okay for us to, um, be in love, and things like that?” 

Mondatta is careful to temper both shock and amusement from his expression. “In what way?” 

“I mean, I'm speaking only for myself.” Sita flaps her hand, a flush gradually illuminating her deep brown cheeks. “It's just- our time is so precious and there's so much to do- how can you decide if something like that is even worth thinking about, or if you're just being selfish?” 

Mondatta never wishes to be obtuse, but he is no prophet. He holds no divine secrets to the universe aside from the ones contained in the souls of all living beings. Thus, he prefers walking with others to their own conclusions rather than offering his own. “Let's examine it this way; If you have money, what happens if you give it up?” 

“There will be more of it to go around,” Sita answers without hesitation, eyes wide and curious. 

“Good. And if you have extra food, what happens if you give it up?” 

“The same thing.” 

Realization dawns, gradual as the rising sun, but Sita's anxious gaze keeps him focused, keeps his moving. “And if you give up love, what happens then?” 

Sita's tongue sticks in her cheek for a moment, her blush resuming. “Ah, well it won't exist anymore, I suppose.” 

“That's exactly it.” Mondatta rests a gentle hand on her shoulder and stays the stunned tone from his voice. “We give up luxuries so that there can be more of them in the world. If you deny yourself love, there will be less of it in the world, not more.” 

“You're right,” Sita nods, throat bobbing as she swallows. “It just feels- wasteful, somehow. Spending all this time focused on one person- honestly, I feel really immature even talking about it.” 

“Well, this person must be quite special to have you in such a bind.” Mondatta chuckles kindly at the flustered mumble of agreement that answers him. “Only you can decide the best course of action. But regardless of how they feel, you should be grateful for such an experience.” He laughs again, half-dazed himself. “Crushes haven't proven fatal yet, they only feel like it.” 

Sita laughs too, lifting her eyes more earnestly. “Thank you so much, brother. I feel lighter now-” 

“Sita!” Shing calls from the thrown-open screen across from them. “Can you hold the ladder for me? I finally found the leak and everyone else is busy!” 

“Ah, coming!” Sita snaps to attention, looking at the broom in confusion before Mondatta kindly takes it from her. She offers him the quickest of bows before running right out of her sandals, struggling with them for a moment, then picking them up and jogging barefoot after their resident handywoman. 

Tshering comes up behind him mere seconds later, holding the tablet with emails needing his attention. He exchanges it for the broom and nods over his shoulder. “How long should we expect that to go on?” 

“Oh, not long,” Tshering replies, a smile flickering across her scarred lips as they head inside. “Given that Sister Shing confided in me this morning that they're 'taking it slow.'” 

The pair of them giggle like children, Tshering hiding hers behind her hand in an oddly coy habit of hers. “Oh dear, no point in taking bets, then?” 

She clicks her tongue in jest, flicking up a thick eyebrow. “Gambling bruises the soul, you said so yourself.” 

“Ah yes, but so does gossip, and yet here we are.” 

Mondatta has spent the majority of his life pondering, and yet he spends so little time on this idea, sprung fully-formed into his mind as though it were not his own. On their next rest day, not seventy-two hours later, he purposefully keeps to himself until half-three when he knows Reinhardt will be home. While he's stealing a breath at the back door, Ditya comes striding past and plucks the keycard from his pocket. “What on Earth-” 

The older woman shoots a knowing smile over her shoulder, slinking off like a cat with a mouse in its teeth. “You'll thank me later.” 

Summarily locked out of his own home, he walks past their large, verdant garden, up the path to Reinhardt's modest cottage. He had purchased it long ago, when his beloved friend and comrade Ana had resided in this city with her young family for a time. It is cozy and comfortable, an excellent place to rest between jaunts abroad. 

Reinhardt answers his polite knocks with his usual genial smile. Mondatta schools his face as best he can. “I was wondering if you would mind some company this afternoon?” 

“Of course! You are always welcome.” Reinhardt waves him inside the narrow foyer. “I was just putting together a bookcase, would you like to lend a hand?” 

“I'll do you one better and lend both.” Mondatta smiles, lips pressed together. It's all fine. No reason to be struck foolish by needless anxiety. None at all. 

“My mementos have outgrown their storage,” Reinhardt remarks as they make their way to the conservatory in the rear of the house, past many an overflowing shelf of photos, books, souvenirs of far-off shores and not-close-enough loved ones. “I hope they don't offend your minimalist sensibilities too much.” 

“Of course not, museums have their place in the world.” 

His laugh is lovely and bright, and they set upon the stack of reclaimed wood with a subdued sense of industry. Their talk is practical, comfortable, and the sun warms them through the glass above before grey clouds sweep in. The radio plays on low, and a dampness wriggles into the air as the last nail is hammered into place. 

Reinhardt leans back with an audible crack, shifting as he sands down a few rough edges. “Would you mind to put on the kettle?” 

“Not at all.” Mondatta rises and retreats to the kitchen to search for teabags and chipped mugs. He folds his arms as the electric kettle hums and bubbles to a boil, slipping into the indulgent fantasy of another evening like this. One where Reinhardt comes up behind him and slides strong arms around his waist, where he is free to lean into the splendid warmth of him, to tend to him and let himself be tended in turn. 

The short whistle and loud click draw his attention back to his reflection in the dull metal casing. He frowns and quickly pours their drinks. Caring for someone is not wasteful, but the same cannot be said for daydreaming and waffling around. Moreover, he has asked too many dear souls to open their hearts to continue keeping his own closed in service of denial trussed up as altruism. 

He survived a bullet, he will most definitely survive this. 

Reinhardt bids his hearty thanks, having already set the shelf aside and sprawled on one end of the wicker couch facing the treeline. A few solar lights dangle from the ceiling, leaving the room pleasantly dim as the light fades behind the clouds, setting the silver streaks in his companion's hair aglow. “I'm impressed, you didn't hit your thumb even once this time.” 

Mondatta snorts, blowing the steam from his cup. “Perhaps I'm not as inept as you once thought.” 

“Perhaps so!” Another merry laugh, then quiet once comfortable, now stifling. Mondatta searches for something to say, but Reinhardt fills the void. “I had lunch with Fareeha today, in the cadets' mess- I still almost can't believe it. I remember visiting her in the nursery, I could have held her in my palm, then.” 

Mondatta catches himself beaming at the overwhelming fondness in the man's eyes, the pride and subtle excitement in his gestures. They are long past hedging their words, though he takes care to colour his tone with kindness. “Do you ever regret not having a family of your own?” 

Reinhardt shakes his head, smile scarcely fading. “I wasn't suited to it. Back then, I only wanted adventure, to see justice done.” 

“The usual,” Mondatta finishes, glancing up as raindrops begin to patter against the glass. “And what about now?” 

“Now?” Reinhardt chuckles, seemingly in spite of himself, running a hand over his beard. “Ah, it is harder at my age. Almost everyone has already settled down or endured enough heartbreak for a lifetime.” 

“True, I suppose.” Boldness springs tart and renewed on his tongue. His hand slides up to tug on the collar of his robe so that it subtly falls open. “In that case, would you ever consider seeing someone younger?” 

Mondatta keeps his eyes off in the dark distance beyond the walls, so that the question can remain only a question if necessary. There is slight movement in the corner of his vision, a thoughtful hum. 

“I would consider it,” Reinhardt says thoughtfully, shifting and making the couch creak beneath them. “But then, all I would think of is growing old and leaving them behind. It wouldn't be fair to them.” 

“But that is always a risk,” Mondatta replies, teacup sticking to his bottom lip. “Particularly in your line of work.” 

“Ah, too right, and a risk that will be reduced, in due time.” 

Mondatta turns slowly then, finding Reinhardt's gaze distant and tinged with something bittersweet. His friend's glad resignation to dying in the line of duty had once been difficult to understand, rivalling folk tales of devout monks willingly letting themselves be eaten by hungry tigers. “You're actually considering retirement?” 

“Not today, not next year.” Reinhardt chuckles softly, then almost inaudibly sighs. “The results of my last physical were not my best. Another significant wound and I'll be condemned to a desk job.” 

Mondatta's heart aches at the image, as disheartening as a magnificent lion in a roadside zoo. He puts flirtation aside and lays a gentle hand against the warm bulk of his friend's arm. “It must be difficult to consider, after all you've done.” 

“It certainly is.” Reinhardt sets his cup aside so that he might affectionately cover Mondatta's hand with his own, turning his brilliant smile back upon him. “But it is a little easier, now that I have seen there are other ways to fight.” 

The intricacies of the human heart are as delicate and incomprehensible as a spider's web. In his ignorance, Mondatta hesitates only a second before impulsively cupping his jaw with both hands and planting a kiss on smooth, startled lips. He withdraws almost immediately, filled with regret. “Forgive me, that was much too forward-” 

Reinhardt catches his wrist, a gleam illuminating the blueness of his good eye. “I'm not so sure. Why don't you try it again and then I'll decide?” 

Mondatta cannot find it in himself to feel self-conscious about the giddy, absurd laugh that escapes him, because in Reinhardt's voice is the charm, the tenderness, the knight errant appeal of the strange man who turned up on their mountain one day. He answers him with his body, their lips meeting with slightly more technical merit this time. 

His arms slide blindly around Reinhardt's neck as they melt into each other and he can feel it. The infinity contained within a single drop of water, between one breath and the next, the tranquility of being fully alive within oneself. As kisses leave him weak, the Iris electrifies his nerves and focuses his mind and he feels _glorious._

How lucky he is, to be wanted, touched, perhaps even treasured, if Reinhardt's rapturous caresses are anything to go by. 

In terribly fitting fashion, they spend as much of the evening talking as otherwise, but it is necessary. Reinhardt's fears move in like the tide, quietly sweeping him away under the stars and across the pillows. Mondatta holds on and pulls him back, lets his heart fall open to show how much he wants this. It scares him, how much. 

“I would have been content with simply being by your side.” 

“I thought the same, but I have run out of reasons to forsake you.” 

“So well-spoken, I admire that about you.” A soft laugh, softer eyes resting upon him. “I always have.” 

Mondatta's laugh comes out as almost a sigh, his head propped up on his hand. “If I were to be honest about how long I've imagined this, I'd humiliate myself, so I won't.” 

Another hearty chuckle, the strokes of his hand slowing and his warm gaze turning sad. “Suppose the worst, suppose I do leave you behind.” 

“I could do the same to you, just as easily.” Mondatta swallows, ignoring a distant ringing in his ears. “Jyoti and I swore to look after each other until the end of our days, and we both have more than each other, now.” He drops his eyes, melancholy overtaking desire. There is nothing easy about the private life of a public figure. “Besides, that is the least of our difficulties.” 

The romance seems spoiled until Reinhardt's thumb sweeps along his cheekbone and he finds his smile returned. “We have that flight to Spain on Sunday, that will give us much time to talk.” 

“Oh right, I'd nearly forgotten,” Mondatta says with a slight wince. 

“Don't fret, I picked up your medicine already.” 

“You take such good care of me.” Mondatta chuckles and leans in, hand pressing to breastbone and lips brushing over a tanned, pink cheek. “Regardless of what happens, you must let me repay that, at least. You have given much of yourself for scarce rewards.” 

Reinhardt's spirit shines out from his face, his knuckles grazing Mondatta's jaw as he rolls onto his back, Mondatta climbing atop his broad chest. “Ah, what a little sweetheart you are.” 

Mondatta flushes, unaccustomed to being anyone's little anything. “Hush.” 

The mirth returns, a teasing lilt to his smile. “Oh, you like when I talk to you like that?” 

“Don't you start,” he scoffs and ends their banter, if only temporarily. 

Hazy, happy candy floss dreams roll them into the next morning. Mondatta stays tucked into the cradle of Reinhardt's body and blankets until the sun is too high to ignore. His orange day robes are rumpled but easy to smooth out. As he bends to reach his sandals, a burly arm slips around his middle. “Leaving so soon?” 

“Only for morning prayer.” Mondatta chuckles, turning to meet kisses that cover his mouth, cheeks, and neck, leaving him longing to stay. “Reinhardt, please, I'll be late.” 

His companion laughs and sits up, such a mountainous frame and yet so gentle when he clasps both of Mondatta's hands and brings them up to his lips, the press of them almost delicate. 

“I have to go,” Mondatta says quickly when he regains his breath. Reinhardt smiles and releases him as he stands. “Please- come to breakfast if you wish, don't feel that you have to stay away.” 

Reinhardt's laugh buzzes against his cheek as he bends to kiss him once more. “Until breakfast, then.” 

Mondatta 'mhmm's' and rushes off without a glance backwards, every step lifting him higher into the atmosphere, the morning air like pure oxygen. 

The dewy walk back to the monastery allows him to regain his composure, the heat of the day only a distant weight on the breeze. Approaching the side door, he thankfully runs into Jyoti while they're feeding the chickens. They let him in, regarding him with a nod and a simple “Welcome back.” 

A few moments of walking together in silence is enough to stoke fear in his heart. Blessedly, Jyoti puts it to rest as soon as they notice his expression, slowing their pace and touching his arm. “Oh, Mondatta, it's not that I don't care. It's only that the colour in your cheeks has already told me everything I need to know.” 

A nearly shy snort of laughter escapes him, his hand pressing to his neck. “Is it so obvious?” 

“Only to me, but the others will put it together soon, I'm sure.” Jyoti smiles as they walk through thin sunbeams, tapping one finger against their chin. “I suppose now Reinhardt and I will have to decide how best to share you. Perhaps some sort of rotating schedule?” 

Mondatta raises an eyebrow. “Am I invited to this discussion?” 

Jyoti simply smirks. “Only if you want to be.” 

He elbows his friend and makes them stumble, the two of them laughing as they find their way to the courtyard. It is though they are students again, young and hungry and wholly reliant on each other. Mondatta steals a kiss off the temple offered to him before they take their seats alongside the others in the pavilion. 

Zenyatta is not with them that morning, having left for yet another early class. He returns in the humid evening. Joining them for dinner and fairly buzzing with energy until he announces that the health centre has offered him a full-time position, and that his advisor is pulling strings so he can officially graduate before he starts. 

The immediate, raucous fuss that surrounds him is testament to how beloved he is within their order, and rightfully so. Amidst the hugs and congratulations and overlapping comments about their sweet little Zen-bhā'i and how fast time goes, Zenyatta is as luminous as Venus in the night sky. So filled with love that he cannot help but reflect it all back, and smiling so big that his freckles bunch on top of each other. 

Mondatta's joy is dampened somewhat afterwards, when Zenyatta slips him off to the back garden to pester him for details. He answers honestly and almost immediately resents himself for it, scowling while waiting out his brother's high peals of laughter. “Are you done?” 

“Oh, that is too good!” Zenyatta mimes wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “Do tell, how did you move things to the bedroom? Did you roll up your trousers and flash him a little ankle?” 

“This is the absolute last time I tell you anything.” Mondatta moves to stand up but is pulled back into the grass by a one-sided hug. 

“I'm happy for you, I really am.” His brother's voice is fond enough to relax Mondatta's shoulders, though his grin soon turns wicked. “But you're lucky Reinhardt is into the repressed nerd type, otherwise-” 

“That is quite enough out of you.” Mondatta pinches Zenyatta's nose between his knuckles and pulls until he's pushed away. 

Zenyatta sniffs haughtily and feigns giving him the cold shoulder. Mondatta puts his irritation aside, eyes lingering on his profile, awestruck that there's a man before him instead of a doe-eyed baby. He reaches out and runs his fingers along the fuzz of his brother's scalp. “I am so very proud of you.” 

Zenyatta smiles, glancing off bashfully. “Thank you, dai.” 

“I hope you aren't nervous,” Mondatta continues, smiling as Zenyatta leans carefully against his side. “You have worked hard to get this far, and you're going to do very well.” 

“I'm too excited to be nervous, at least for now,” Zenyatta giggles, fidgeting with his blouse cuffs. “Once I save up a bit, I can start looking for a roommate. There aren't any cheap flats in this city.” 

“Well, there's no rush. It's not as though we're going to evict you,” Mondatta tries to joke, but Zenyatta glances at him and his expression changes. 

“Mondatta, it isn't about me running away,” Zenyatta sighs, sounding mildly exasperated and holding his hands out. “I want to stay near all of you, I do. But I need something that's just- mine. It's important to me.” 

“I understand that, better than I once did.” Mondatta nods, resting a hand on his brother's strong shoulder. “Please, don't take it as discouraging, I'm only being sentimental. I feel like the next time I turn around, I'll be an uncle.” 

“Well, not that fast! I'll start with a few houseplants and see how it goes!” Zenyatta laughs brightly and Mondatta is nearly moved to tears. Their lives keep changing so suddenly and the future is forever an unknown, but he is alive, he is loved, and Zenyatta remains ever his favourite miracle. 

An entirely human miracle, thankfully, proven again a few years later. Mondatta enters the kitchen to find their favourite houseguest shirtless, bent over, and rooting around in the refrigerator. Genji sings along to the exceptionally chipper Korean pop tune blasting from the headphones draped over his neck, shaking his hips to the beat mere inches away from where Zenyatta sits at the end of the table. His expression neutral, fingers poised over the keyboard, but his eyes are steady rather than scanning whatever work he's taken home this time. 

Genji whirls around with metal water bottle in hand, freezing when he nearly volleys into Mondatta and quickly reaching into his shorts pocket to hit pause. “Oh, hey. My class got cancelled so I'm going for a run. Angela wants me to test out the new hardware.” 

“Impressive,” Mondatta replies in earnest, regarding the sleek, blade-like prosthetic Genji lifts in demonstration. “Enjoy it, just don't be late for dinner.” 

“Hah, not a chance!” Genji seems to leave his flash of a grin behind, Cheshire Cat-style, as he lopes out the side door and startles the chickens in his wake. 

Zenyatta's eyes remain fixed and unseeing on the screen, both hands folded beneath his chin as Mondatta approaches. “Which would you like first, advice or sympathy?” 

“Neither, not today.” Zenyatta scowls magnificently, throwing on his own headphones when Mondatta opens his mouth again. “No, not another syllable out of you, you sadist.” 

Mondatta simply laughs as Zenyatta cranks some Kraftwerk album up to near-deafening levels, his cheeks burning. He heads back to his study, content to leave him be for now, but at last he has the opportunity. 

Zenyatta won't get away with having mocked him so easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, IT IS DONE! 
> 
> It might be niche as hell, but I'm glad to have finally gotten this story out of my system, and I hope you've enjoyed it! 
> 
> Just to clarify: Zen is 19-20 during most of this chapter, his fling with Akande is 100% consensual and Akande isn't trying to use him as Mondatta fears. They both just wanted some and they got some, periodically until Zen ended up with Genji. 
> 
> Also major props to writers who can deftly handle large casts in a single story, I did my best but it is no mean feat. As promised, I'm throwing some Shambali facts down here, keeping it brief because I miiight be writing another, shorter and more lighthearted fic with them in the future! Thank you so much again for reading! 
> 
> Jyoti: Nepali, Handles the Shambali's finances/taxes, aromantic, is aware of how codependent his and Mondatta's relationship is but is okay with that so long as they both have other outlets, in my mind looks somewhat like Cat (Laura's GF) from Craig of the Creek   
> Ditya: Nepali, former Rich Bitch (tm) and would get along famously with Amelie and Satya if they happened to hang out, wanted kids of her own but is happy to substitute by being everyone's mom/aunt-friend, took a vow of poverty but still doesn't get paid enough to deal with some of the BS she has to deal with   
> Bishal: Nepali, older twin, registered nurse, gentle giant, takes up a casual romance with Tenzing later on   
> Pema: Nepali, younger twin, registered dental hygienist, mousy but loud, working on becoming a full-on dentist   
> Yungchen: Tibetan, lover of all children, becomes a registered ECE and runs soccer and other programs for the local kids out of the monastery, probably the best cook out of everyone but doesn't brag   
> Nawang: Tibetan, handles all food programs and inventory, good at mechanical repairs, visited the monastery many times before committing to joining the Shambali   
> Liu: Chinese-Vietnamese, former concert pianist and opera singer, exceptionally shy even among his newfound family, maintains the library despite some of the others outright ignoring the organizational system   
> Shikha: Indian, left a life of organized crime and was sheltered by the Shambali when she first joined, self-taught tattoo artist, develops a reciprocated crush on Liu   
> Tshering: Tibetan, grew up in Nepal, former teenage soldier, is the first to disagree with or tease Mondatta but is fiercely attached to him as he was the first person to treat her kindly when she was angry, organizes most of their protests   
> Tenzing: Tibetan, visually impaired but forever forgetting his cane at home, former linguist and proficient at picking up languages, best green thumb in the Shambali and will spend all day in the garden   
> Shing: Chinese, resident carpenter/handywoman/artisan, makes statement art projects with Shikha, always smiling, useful lesbian   
> Sita: Indian, grew up in Nepal, saw Mondatta speak in her early teens and felt called to join the Shambali once she was (barely) old enough, trained in folk dance with older sister before joining, lover and caretaker of all animals, useless lesbian


End file.
